This Ain't Cairo
by Kailene
Summary: Mac's name lodges in his throat, and his blood runs cold at the sight before him... It's every one of Jack's deepest fears made real. Alternative scene to S01e9, Chisel. Because Mac and Jack are always getting caught up in explosions and walking away, and, well, I just had to do something about it.


**Author's Note #1** : First, this is a gift to TinkerBella. Months ago, in a comment on one of her stories, I mentioned that I had an idea for a MacGyver story of my own, if I ever wrote it that was. She commented back to me that I should, that I should just go for it. And I did. Thank you, sweetie, for all your encouragement and ideas. I hope you like this.

 **Author's Note #2** : Second, I couldn't have completed this story without the help of Ridley C. James and Riathema. Thank You both so much for all your suggestions, edits, wisdom, and patience in helping me make this story the best that I could. If you haven't read their stuff, go check them out here and on , they both have some great stories.

 **Author's Note #3** : Lastly, I try in my stories to stay as close to Canon as I can, and as such, I'm placing Mac's age at 28. It's actually only mentioned in one line of the story, but after I wrote it I got curious if it had been mentioned at any time. In the voiceover in episode 3, "Awl," MacGyver makes the comment, "I thought I would at least make it to 30." In episode 19 "Flashlight," while discussing birthdays, MacGyver says "on Mars I'd be 14" (and yes, there is a website that will tell you your age on each of the planets. Gotta love the internet, lol. Thank you ).

~~MacGyver~~

"Damn..." Jack's low drawl breaks off in a hacking cough and he rolls himself slowly over onto his back to try to ease his breathing. He hisses in a breath, chest constricting painfully as his body tries to rid itself of the dust and smoke coating his throat and clogging his lungs. "M'never lookin' at condiments the same way again."

Years of intense Delta Force training had his body responding automatically, relaxing, going slack, absorbing the concussive force of the blast to avoid serious injury, but he does a quick mental once-over anyway. Though, the fact that he'd already moved his body makes being cautious in case of a hidden injury a moot point now anyway.

His muscles protest the movement as he quickly and methodically flexes and moves each of his limbs. He knows he's going to be feeling it come morning—and _dammit_ , there will be a morning for each and every one these innocent civilians and Marines that their actions have put in harms way—but other than a few new bruises he can feel, and a few more on top of the colorful array he was still sporting from their game of cat and mouse with Murdoc, he doesn't detect anything broken.

Jack drags a hand down his face, thumb and forefinger sweeping across his eyes as he blinks to get rid of the thin layer of grit that stuck to his eyelashes. His muscles groan in displeasure as he rolls back over to his stomach, pushing paper, plaster, and bits of the wooden doorframe off his body. He gets his hands and knees beneath himself and pushes up into a crouch, looking across the room to the hallway.

Or to where the hallway once was.

Despite the gravity of the situation, a slow grin curves Jack's lips, equal parts pride and awe at the destruction that Mac has wrought.

A haze of fine particles hangs in the small corridor, the air seeming to shimmer as it slowly settles onto the debris that litters the ground. There are huge holes in the wall. The wooden flooring is blown apart, and the support beams underneath are snapped like twigs; the jagged pieces not imbedded deep into the plaster walls, are scattered a dozen or more feet into the inner upstairs offices they sought refuge in.

And the large, reinforced steel safe that took he, Mac, and two other Marines to move into the hallway just moments before, is gone. Only a huge gaping hole remains in its place

"When I say _'make it count_ ,' you don't disappoint now do you, bud?"

His brow furrows at the lack of response from his partner, the realization that there have been no return jabs or snarky comments thrown back at him this whole time suddenly hits him full force. What had been the last words Mac had said to him right before the explosion? " _You need to find cover, Jack."_

Jack shakes his head as he stands up. Like that is _ever_ going to happen. Mac might be the EOD Specialist, but there isn't a scenario in existence where Jack would leave him behind—for any reason. Where Mac went, Jack went. That's just the way it was. Rule Number One. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, no matter how big the crazy. Come Hell or high water they were in this together and Jack wasn't about to change that.

" _MAC_?" Jack shouts his name, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room as he slowly turns around in a tight circle. There's no need for stealth; the members of Deiva Roka already know where they are. Even through the mass of desks, chairs, and office equipment they'd stuffed the stairwell with, the added debris from the explosion, and the post-blast ringing in his ears, Jack can still hear the angry shouts from the floor below.

And he doesn't need an interpreter to tell him that they've pissed the terror cell off even more. Those terse, angry shouts are orders to find any way possible up to where they are.

They are running out of time.

" _MAC!_ " Jack calls again, barely able to control his rising panic. His eyes land on the row of windows on the far side of the room—the next step in their Hail Mary plan: surround and surprise the bad guys from the rear and get the civilians out. They are all still tightly closed, reams of bound copy paper still firmly covering the bullet-ridden panes of glass. The "rope" the embassy staff had cobbled together, still neatly coiled and ready to go beneath the sill. It tells him nothing and everything at the same time: MacGyver hasn't left. He is still in the building. Jack doesn't know whether that piece of information makes him feel better or worse.

"Dammit," Jack curses, frustration warring with concern and fear as the clock ticks on with still no sign of his young partner. The yelling from downstairs has ceased, replaced with loud bangs and crashes that leave no doubt that the up-and-coming terrorist group are quickly making their way through the impromptu blockade and will be up the stairs before they know it.

The room that he and Mac moved the members of the Latvian Embassy to isn't very big. All the other rooms on the second floor have been barricaded or boarded up, and Jack continues his circuit, three-quarters of the way around in no time at all. He opens his mouth to yell Mac's name again when his focus catches up with the turn of his body. The name lodges in his throat, and his blood turns to ice at the sight before him.

 _"_ _MAC!"_

Jack is across the room before he even thinks to move. He slides to his knees beside his partner, the jarring impact on his sore body not even a blip in the radar. He vision tunnels inward, his surroundings losing all meaning; the civilians, the terrorists… _the mission itself_ …all fade away. The only sound he hears is the white noise of his thundering pulse in his ears. The only thing he can see is what lies before him.

Distantly, Jack's elite trained soldier's mind reconstructs what took place in horrific, Technicolor detail and his gut clenches.

When the gun powder ignited, Mac's lighter, leaner frame was catapulted across the room like a rag doll and straight into the unforgiving base of the heavy conference room table. The impact only toppled it, splintering it in half, but Mac's body had continued, crashing into the wooden doors just beyond.

The sharp, serrated edges of the rubble rising and twisting in all directions looking like a macabre alien landscape.

And sticking out of the wreckage… _The only part visible_ from beneath the shattered and splintered remains of the former hallway and its contents, bent and awkward and so unnaturally still, are two long denim-clad legs.

It is every one of Jack's deepest fears made real. Mac may give him a hard time about always dying in all his own dreams, but, _this_ , right here, is what haunts Jack's deepest nightmares.

Jack knows the risks of the job. Hell, they both do. He and Mac have made a conscious choice to put their lives on the line, to protect a country and its people that they both love. Jack accepted his fate long ago, and he made his peace with himself and with his remaining family. One of these days, he's going to tangle with someone better, stronger, or faster than himself, and that will be that.

But, Mac?

No.

Never.

This stopped being a simple _protection detail_ for him a helluva long time ago. Somewhere along the lines Angus MacGyver had deeply ensconced himself in Jack's life. He'd become more than just a fellow teammate fighting beside him in the ravages of war torn Afghanistan, more than a colleague, or one of Jack's buddies that he hung with. They weren't just partners. They'd surpassed that, into a bond stronger than even brothers.

This is unacceptable, would _always_ _be_ unacceptable.

 _"_ _NoNoNoNoNo!"_ Jack mumbles, voice catching and tripping over the emotion that has lodged thick and heavy in his throat

"No," Jack repeats out loud as he shakes his head. "Uh uh."

The urge to just start tearing into the rubble is overwhelming. His hands itch at his sides, clenching and unclenching with the need to move _now_ ; the need to lie eyes on his best friend an almost physical presence bearing down on him.

Years of training help him draw a deep, steadying breath, and he feels the skilled Operative take over, locking down the best friend that is frantic with worry and panic. He starts analyzing and scrutinizing the debris, calculating the load strengths and balance points in his mind to find the best point to start extraction. One wrong choice and the whole thing could come crashing down, causing more damage.

Or worse.

He shoves that dark thought aside. It doesn't help anyone, least of all Mac. There will be time enough later—after they _both_ unwind around the fire pit with beers—lots of beers—and Bozer's famous burgers.

Right now…

Jack starts at Mac's legs where there is the least amount of wreckage, and carefully begins to remove the chunks of plaster and splinters of wood.

"You're fine, you hear me? You're fine," Jack mutters, voice unwavering and full of steely determination as he tosses the debris aside and out of the way. Not willing to accept any other outcome.

"We _just_ talked about this. What I say about you—" He cuts himself off abruptly, shoves the rest of the thought deep and locks it down tight. The raw words he spoke to Mac in the War Room when he left Mac behind to go after Murdoc were still too emotionally raw, held too much weight, especially in light of what Jack was currently facing.

He rests one hand on Mac's leg for a moment, gray denim rough against his palm where his fingers have clenched the fabric, needing that connection, that steadying reassurance that Mac is still there, is still beside him— _is still alive, dammit_.

He runs sure hands from ankle to knee, then higher, as far up as he can reach before encountering the larger pieces of the door and table that cover his torso. He finds no injuries; there's no blood and nothing seems broken, so he carefully straightens one leg then the other, on the alert for any reaction that might signal a deeper, more serious injury. The relief that Jack feels is torn away when his partner doesn't move as he works.

There's nothing. Not even the slightest flinch.

He cranes his head quickly back towards the ruined stairwell, their last line of defense that separates them from the terrorists. The banging of moving furniture from before is silent, shouts so faint they might as well be nonexistent, and Jack knows that is all kinds of bad news, that the time they have before the " _back-up for the back-up"_ that Deiva Roka has called in is growing slim.

This Op has been all kinds of bad news from the start, has gone twelve kinds of wrong as soon as their feet hit soil. They'd voiced as much at Debrief, exchanging one word that summed up _everything_ they both had felt about this Mission.

 _Cairo_

 _'_ _We don't talk about Cairo_ ' he'd told Riley later on when she'd asked. The hardly spoken words whispered, hushed. Anything louder lending life to the scars and nightmares that still live too close to the surface for the both of them even after all these years.

That disaster of a mission had become the scale against which all other missions were measured. And maybe they jinxed themselves just by saying it. The similarities between then and now are far too eerie, conjuring up the image of another foreign, dusty floor before he can push it down and lock it back away.

"This ain't gonna turn into another fuckin' Cairo," Jack bites out, as he continues to remove debris from atop Mac. Sweat dampens the ends of his short, cropped hair, running down his neck and sliding beneath the collar of his black shirt and flak vest as he works. And Jack is suddenly so grateful that Mac is still wearing his armor, prays that it gave him some protection from possible blunt trauma. He knows it won't completely protect Mac, and he quickly squashes down the train of thought that starts to elaborate on that point, but it's something. And Jack clings to that. Because in their line of work, when it comes to the two of them, _something_ is usually all they've got.

"You hearin' me, Mac?"

Jack scooches his knees sideways on the carpet. He reaches one arm out to brace the pile of wreckage, hand barely brushing the wood that still rests precariously over the top half of Mac. He slips his other hand underneath the heap, fingers slowly and methodically searching the jagged, rough underside for any pieces that might have splintered off and impaled his partner.

He blows out a heavy, relieved puff of air as he reaches the top of the pile where he estimates Mac's head to be without finding any pieces that have skewered his partner.

"Alright… Alright, good. That's good. We're good."

Jack grips his fingers along the outer-edge of the two bottom-most pieces and heaves, grunting deeply as he lifts the entire broken mess that remains of the doors and table and tosses it aside.

For the second time in as many minutes, Jack's heart seizes in this throat.

Mac lay on his side, eyes closed, face lax and streaked with blood and soot. His blond hair falls down like a curtain across his forehead, making him look like the sixteen year old kid that Jack always teases him he looks like instead of the twenty-eight year old man that he is.

"Come on, come on, come on," Jack mutters as he presses the tips of two fingers against Mac's neck. "What'd I tell you about doin shit like this, huh?"

Relief crashes hard and fast over Jack as he feels Mac's pulse beat steady beneath his fingers. "That's it… Knew you wouldn't let 'ole Jack down."

The rate is a little on the too-fast side, but Jack will take it over the too-slow signal of a serious head injury or it being non-existent any day of the damn week. He isn't a medic by any stretch of the word, but he's had enough training to keep comrades alive until Evac could reach them. He's had to put his novice skills to practice too many times, and his thoughts drifts to some of the worst-case scenarios as he locates what had obviously stopped his partner's momentum cold. Mac's head was resting against the metal leg of the conference room table.

Jack slips his hand between Mac's neck and the table leg and grimaces as his fingers catch in matted hair. He immediately feels it, the unmistakable warm, stickiness that can only be blood.

"Aww… dammit, kiddo," Jack mutters. He braces his forearm along Mac's upper back and holds him still and unmoving as he pushes the remnants of the table backwards and away from them.

The table flips over, bouncing several times before it rolls to a stop. The dull thud it makes as it hit the carpeted floor is not nearly as satisfying as Jack would like…Or needs.

He places his other hand in the middle of Mac's chest and tips him slightly forward. Head wounds always bleed like a stuck pig and he keeps repeating that to himself as he leans over to get a better look at where all the blood is coming from.

"Ah, hell."

The back of Mac's neck is coated, the thick fluid trickling down the side of his throat to his chest and staining it a bright crimson. What Jack can see of the back of his dress shirt is saturated, the original dark gray material made even darker as it soaks up the blood.

"You can never do anything by halves, can you?" Jack says softly. "And you know, while that was a most impressive explosion, Somalia—still totally your fault by the way—was _way_ worse than this," he continues as he gently examines his partner's neck and skull.

"This?" Jack waves one hand vaguely over Mac's prone body. "This is totally unacceptable." He doesn't feel any bones shift that shouldn't and it's like a huge weight is lifted.

"Well, you'll be happy to know that you didn't break anything important, my friend,"

He knows he's babbling, but he can't help it. He's always had the odd need to fill a room with chatter, especially when he's anxious, and nothing works his nerves worse than a quiet and still MacGyver. He has more than enough words to keep up the conversation; he just wishes with everything that he has that it wasn't so one-sided, that his partner would wake up already and tell him to "shut-up, Jack" the way he's done a million times before.

He knows that they don't have the time for triaging and treating. Standard Operating Procedure mandates that he should just stabilize Mac and move him to a safer position, while he continues with the mission objective as best as he can.

The mission is priority number one, always, and he takes his mission parameters seriously. As much as Jack would just like to shoot the pain in the ass and leave him in a ditch somewhere, he knows that they can't let the bad guys get Janis. He has already caused the deaths of too many people and they can't let him go back to his buddies where he's going to cause even more death and destruction.

But Jack's _mission priority number one_ and the Men in Black in Oversight's—hell, even Patty's— _mission priority number one_ has always differed slightly. MacGyver has always fallen above that line. He _will_ _always_ fall above that line. They'll get the job done, they haven't failed on a mission yet; he just has his own way of going about it.

He looks back towards the stairwell, then back over to the set of windows along the far wall in front of them. All is quiet on the western front and Jack is more than happy to keep it that way. But he knows that baddies suddenly going quiet is the same as kids suddenly going quiet…they are up to no good.

"Riley!" Jack calls towards the back room where she, the Marines, and the civilians are still hiding, "you have eyes on our friends?" He turns his attention back down to his—still silent—partner and uses his fingers to gently separate the blond hair along the back of his head to search for the wound causing all that blood. "C'mon…where are ya?"

Riley's hesitant confirmation is full of silent questions, ones that Jack knows even as the Rookie she understands can't or shouldn't be voiced at the present time, and the worry and concern he can hear in the silent space before she finishes her answer tears at his heart.

"Status quo," Riley reports back, "they haven't moved. Doin' the same as they were before… Jack?"

She's always been smart, too smart most of time, even as a kid, and Jack knows without him even having to say anything that she knows that something is wrong. But the last thing he wants is for her to leave the safety of the room he's hidden them in. For her to worry more than she probably already is…he's doing enough of that for all of them.

"Everything's good, Riley," he assures her. "We're fine, we're good."

"Alright," she answers. Jack can hear the doubt in her voice, and he's sure there will be hell to pay when she finds out.

"You gonna make a liar outta me, bud?" Jack asks, hands still ghosting against his partner's skin in search of the wound. "We both know that little lady is more than capable of kickin' both our asses.

"There you are, you bastard." His fingers suddenly slide across broken skin at the base of Mac's skull, and Jack wipes at the blood to get a better look. It's thankfully not deep, the blood already starting to clot. But it's long and jagged, the skin around it swollen. Even through the blood, Jack can see it's already turning a sickly purple-ish blue.

"Ya got yourself good, pal," Jack informs his partner. "Gonna have one helluva headache when you wake up. Speaking of which…"

Jack gently rolls Mac onto his back on the carpeted floor, and he can't help himself as he brushes Mac's bangs out his eyes and sweeps them across his forehead. Bright red catches his eye and his heart clenches at the sight, at _Mac's blood_ covering his hands. He quickly wipes them on his black jeans.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey," Jack singsongs as he cups one side of MacGyver's face, careful to avoid the angry brush of rug burn that paints the other side, as he gently starts to tap on his cheek. "No sleepin' on job, partner."

When MacGyver doesn't respond, the terrified, 'frantic friend Jack" starts to break through the cage that Agent Dalton locked it in and he grits his jaw tight.

"You know… I don't have all that much hair left to turn gray…or to loose for that matter, for you to be doin' shit like this, homey."

His partner's bullet proof vest covers most of his chest, and there is no way in Hell that Jack is removing it, but the strip of skin that lays exposed just below his throat will work for what Jack has in mind. What Jack hopes will bring his friend back.

"Mac!" Jack barks, loud and sharp, as he places the knuckle of his pointer finger onto the very top of Mac's sternum and digs in, hard.

The response is immediate. Mac jackknifes back to consciousness, Jack's name a scream on his lips, and only Jack's quick reflexes prevent him from a nose broken.

"Whoa! Hey! Hey, Mac! M'right here…I'm safe," Jack assures. He places his hand in the middle of his partner's chest and presses him back down to the floor, the move way too easy for Jack's liking. Mac's hand snaps up, fingers unerringly finding and wrapping surprisingly tight around Jack's wrist, and Jack places his other hand on Mac's shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

"Woah… Easy there, Kemosabe. I'm good. We're good," Jack says, feeling Mac's heart jack-rabbiting beneath his palm. "You keep these stunts up and you know m'gonna lock you up."

Mac gives a slight groan in response, squeezing his eyes shut against what Jack knows must be a solid combination of pain and one hell of a head rush. His grip on Jack's wrist tightens. It won't be the first time that he's been that rock for MacGyver to latch onto, so Jack tightens his grip on Mac's shoulder and he keeps up his flow of words, giving his friend something familiar, _safe_ , to lock onto as he finds solid ground again.

"Gonna build myself an Angus-MacGyver _-_ proof room. Then again, maybe I don't have too. Y'all weren't too keen to leave that Escape Room you brought your date too. Maybe I'll just lock ya up with… Candy? Sandy?—"

"Cindy," comes the mumbled reply. Mac lifts his other arm and drapes it over his eyes, and Jack wishes his could dim the lights to ease the pain their brightness is causing his partner.

Jack chuckles. "Even half conscious you remember her name. Must'a been one hellava date, my man."

"I don't kiss and tell, Jack."

"Ahhh…so there _was_ kissing," Jack says with an impressed smile and a pat to Mac's shoulder. "That's my boy."

"Shut up, Jack," Mac admonishes, lifting his arm just enough to glare at him.

Jack can't help but laugh. "You're so much fun when you're concussed," he teases. "Though that scowl would be so much more threatening if y'weren't lookin like Casper."

"Casper?"

"Seriously, dude? All the things that big ole brain of yours knows, and you don't know Casper?" Jack asks, shocked. "The Friendly Ghost?—Really? His little friend Wendy?" Jack gives him an incredulous look as he starts an off-key rendition of the old cartoon theme song.

"Good thing you're a great Operative and a crack shot, Jack, cuz… Wow!" MacGyver says with a small grin.

Or what Jack is sure Mac is trying to pass off as a grin. It looks more like a pained grimace, eyes squinted into mere slits and lips pressed thin. Jack always finds it amusing that after all these years the kid still thinks he can pull one over on him.

Mac releases Jack's wrist, letting the hand fall to rest on his chest. Jack doesn't say anything about how long Mac held onto him; he's just happy to see some of the color returning to his pale face.

"Well I gotta be to keep your skinny ass alive," Jack quips back instead. "And speaking of which, we gotta put some meat on these bones, bulk you up like yours truly here, and then you won't be tossed around like Raggedy Andy."

"You are just dating yourself today, old man,"

"Hey now," Jack balks, mock outrage coloring his voice, "I know your Grandpappy taught you better manners than that, young man." He looks at Mac and gives him the once over. "So, if you're done lazin' around…We still got terrorist to take out, an up-and-coming zealot to bring in, and about fifty mercs with AKs gunnin' for us. Any of these ringin' any bells?"

"Oh, it's ringing alright," Mac mutters and Jack knows that he isn't only taking about the mission. His head wound, while—thankfully—not as bad as Jack feared, is just what can be seen. Jack knows that, despite the bullet proof vest absorbing a good deal of the force from the explosion, beneath Mac's clothes he has to be covered in bruises, and he's going to be sore as all hell come morning. There's definitely going to be a trip to Medical in the kid's future.

Whether he wants it or not.

"Don't touch—" Jack starts, reaching out with one hand as Mac brings one of his own up and slides it along the back of his head.

"Ouch."

"—that," Jack finishes. "What'd I tell you?" Jack admonishes as he bats MacGyver's hand away.

"Do you think they have some Goldenseal Root?" MacGyver asks, focus and concentration zeroed in on his blood-tinged fingertips as he slowly turns his hand back and forth in front of his face. "Cayenne will do, too, though that'll sting more than a little bit."

"What? Why… Do I even wanna know?" Jack asks with a resigned sigh. He isn't even surprised when Mac totally ignores his question. He's more than used to his partner going off on one tangent or another and has learned long ago to just go with the flow, but that never stops him from asking questions that he usually doesn't want to know the answers to in the first place.

"To stop the bleeding, Jack," MacGyver states in that exasperated way he has when he thinks that Jack is being an idiot as he waves his bloody fingers in Jack's face. "Been in use for hundreds of years…the Native Americans used it extensively, especially the Cherokee. In fact, Benjamin Smith Bar—"

"Blah, blah, blah… No," Jack cuts him off as he holds his hand up. "You've played with enough kitchen condiments for one day, Julia. You're head is fine, no more cracked than it was before. I checked it myself." The last words come out soft, forced around the pure relief clogging his throat at being able to say those words.

"Now," Jack clears his throat, once again shoving down his all-too-raw emotions, "you can just lie here while I take out all the baddies all by myself, but considering I'm such an awesome care and share kinda guy, and I wouldn't want you to feel left out, so… Up and at 'em, soldier." Jack grasps both of Mac's arms and hauls him to his feet.

"You're a kind man, Jack Dalton," Mac mutters, as he sways unsteadily.

"And it's about time you acknowledged that, too." Jack returns. He quickly clenches a hand onto Mac's belt to hold him up and wraps his other hand around Mac's shoulders for support. "You're not gonna puke on me are you. You know how much I hate that."

"One time, Jack. One time," Mac defends, resting his head against Jack's shoulder. "And, no... Besides…that was all your fault I got sick."

"Oh, no, my friend… I will take full responsibility for bein' ringleader to that entire escapade, but the rest… Uh uh, that was all you. I told you to stand down," Jack drawls, and despite Mac's words to the contrary, Jack can feel him swallowing convulsively against his chest.

He smiles as he remembers the seventy-two hour leave that he wheeled-and-dealed from his CO when they'd found out that Mac was turning twenty-one, and he and his fellow teammates dragging the unsuspecting kid as far away from the desert as they could get to make sure he celebrated that milestone.

"But, no... Genius, college boy with his fancy schoolin' thought he had it all figured out. You were all like, _'I got this, Jack,'_ and _'You worry too much, Jack,'_ and _'It's all about the science, Jack.'_ Ah huh, and what did we learn?"

"Beer then liquor, never been sicker. Liquor then beer, have no fear." Mac picks up his head and Jack is glad to see that his blue eyes are clearer and that he's looking a bit less green around the gills.

His smile is real this time, and Jack can't help the matching one that appears on his own face as he looks at him. "The correct answer to that question is, ' _Always listen to Jack,'_ but I'll take that one in the interim until we can revisit the actual answer. Which will be after you get done with all this dilly dallying." Jack claps Mac lightly on the shoulder, a big grin curling his lips. "We have a window to jump outta."

"No one should be that gleeful about jumping out of a window, Jack," MacGyver laughs. "You are crazy; you know that, right?"

"It's like lookin in a mirror, ain't it?" Jack quips back. He knows Mac can't deny it either. Oh, their methods may be vastly different, but they certainly are two peas from the same certifiable pod. And Jack won't have it any other way.

Mac just gives him a knowing smirk as he stands up straighter and takes his own weight back. He steps away from Jack, heading across the room and towards the windows, on to the next step in the plan, and Jack doesn't even try to hide the supporting hand he puts on his partner's back.

Mac slows his steps and turns his head to lock gazes with Jack, pale blue eyes full of reassurance and fondness. "I'm good. Really, Jack."

"Yeah. You are." Jack's gaze is firm, resolute, as he stares right back at him. As long as Jack has a breath to breathe, that's the way it will always stay. Cairo will forever remain the worst-case scenario, the closest that Mac will ever come to being anything but okay.


End file.
